Wilson's Unfortunate Confession
by sexymermaidspock
Summary: In which Wilson - the lightweight that he is - gets a bit too drunk, throws caution to the wind, and says some things he wishes he could unsay.
1. Chapter 1

A/N Aaayyy, what's up, guys? It's been awhile. Like... a _long_ while. In fact I actually tried to make this account as invisible as possible (since you can't actually deactivate fanfiction accounts...), but recently decided to give it another shot. What the hell, right? This fic isn't particularly recent - I wrote it last year and never posted it, and even though it's a bit cheesy in some places, I decided it's good enough to post. Hope you guys enjoy it. :)  
Lots of love,  
Zeta

 _Jason, I'm not going to lie and say I don't care for you… I just hope you wouldn't have to lie to me and say you feel the same way…_

"Um… Doctor House?" the woman on the examination table frowned in confusion. The scruffy diagnostician looked up with wide blue eyes.

"Yes, what is it? We're getting to a really good part, so make it snappy."

"Well, it's just…" she trailed off. He was clearly losing interest as his attention was once more pulled back to General Hospital. Her confusion morphed into annoyance. "Well I've been sitting here for at least ten minutes now. Are you not going to examine me?"

His eyes remained glued to the screen. "Mm…?"

"I didn't come here to sit and watch bad soap operas. How much longer until you examine me?"

"Mmmm, about…" House paused and glanced down at his wristwatch. "…Twenty more minutes, I figure. I'm off at four."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, I don't want to be here. You don't want to be here. No one wants to be here. Except Cuddy, which, unfortunately for me, means we both have to be here in this unpleasant situation, so why don't you just sit down and shut up and try to make this as painless as possible for both of us."

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, at a loss for what to say. "My mouth has been very dry lately and I've got some weird sores. If you could please take this a little more seriously…" she grumbled.

House emitted a long, exasperated sigh. "Fine. Open your mouth."

She did so. He hardly looked for two seconds when he recoiled in horror. "Oh yeah, your condition is _real_ serious. Thank god you checked in when you did, as it is fatal. You could _die_."

"What?!" she gasped. "Really?!"

House blinked once. Twice. Thrice in total.

"No. You have halitosis." There was nothing he loved more than a sarcastic, well-delivered punchline. "Sores and dry mouth – xerostomia – are both common symptoms and signs of halitosis. Have you been experiencing gum tenderness and bleeding?"

She hesitated, a little taken aback. "Y-Yes, I have."

"And how often have you been brushing your teeth and so on?"

She didn't answer.

"Mm. _Halitosis_." House said, hauling himself out of the chair and making for the door. "Make sure you scrub your tongue. See a dentist if these problems persist. Which, incidentally, is what you _should_ have done in the first place, instead of wasting my precious time."

He hobbled out into the lobby where Wilson was waiting for him.

"The wild Gregorius Housicus at last emerges from his dwelling, keeping its eyes open for the vicious Cuddy, its natural predator," the oncologist joked. "It seems it has roused from hibernation twenty minutes prior to its expected reawakening…"

"Hardy har har. Awfully unsporting of me, I know, but hey. I gotta have some fun. And besides, it's really duck season."

Wilson grinned. The telltale _click-click-click_ of high heels signaled Cuddy's approach, and he bit back a chuckle as House's face fell.

"Would you like to shoot me now or wait 'til you get home?" House muttered, leaning hard on his cane. This was going to be fun. Why couldn't he be off studying real cases of real importance, instead of dealing with every overprotective mother with access to WebMD?

"Shoot 'im now, shoot 'im now," Wilson teased, turning back to his miscellaneous files and papers and busying himself as the dean – in all her bosomy glory – strode towards them with a look of spiteful determination.

"Exam room two. Go. Now."

"But it's wabbit season," House mocked. She gave him a look that could only mean 'you're completely insane'.

"I don't care. You still have fifteen minutes left and you're falling behind. Again." She punctuated the final word by shoving the patient's file into his chest and shooing him away. "Wabbit season… what the hell."

"It's really duck season," Wilson chimed in.

He could be very curt.

In fact, basically every time he opened his mouth, he was curt. He was sarcastic. He manipulated people into cooperating, even when they hated his guts.

He was cruel to his best friend. In fact, Wilson had it worst of all. He received the brunt of House's… well, House's everything, really; jokes, insults, manipulation, abuse. He put up with so much. Too much. Why? Everyone always asked, 'why do you deal with him?'

 _He massages the front of his best friend's pants, rotating his palm in varying circles as he nips at the younger man's neck._

" _Fuck… Oh fuck fuck fucking fuck jesus god fuck…" is about the only thing James Wilson has to say to this, fingers desperately clutching at any inch of Gregory House he can get his hands on, running them through the short grey hair, tracing the lines of his face, his torso, all of it._

 _Gregory pulls away, blue eyes connecting with brown, sharing the same small space. A smug grin plays about his lips as James pants, hips rising to meet the hand now toying with him. The diagnostician snickers and sets to work on the belt buckle and front button of the sleek black dress pants, agonisingly slow. James's hunger mounts._

" _So needy," Gregory says softly, tongue swiping the shell of the oncologist's ear. "You'll have to beg for it."_

He couldn't help it. He was like a lost puppy when it came to House, following the man around like there was an invisible leash wrapped around his neck. To be perfectly honest, he had no idea how they even became friends in the first place, but somehow, it had stuck. Like Stockholm syndrome.

" _Please," he murmurs, "please, House…"_

" _Not good enough." Gregory withdraws, turning his back and meandering away. "Beg, James."_

 _The sound of his name coming from those lips is like a drug. All he wanted was to hear Gregory utter his name over and over and over again. But begging… what was he supposed to say?_

" _Please, Greg, I want you to touch me… I need it. Fuck, please…"_

" _Mm, better. We'll work on it."_

 _Gregory pushes James against the wall, pinning his hands above his head, gently rocking into him, that lovely pouty lip between his teeth. One hand slides down James's torso and into his dress pants. That's one layer down… Gregory's fingertips teasingly brush across James's legs, straying just below the waistband of his boxers before hitting home._

 _James hisses and arches into Gregory's touch. "Harder… Greg, harder, please…"_

" _Say it again," the diagnostician growls._

" _Harder, Greg, I- oh fuck…"_

"Oh god…" Wilson breathed out a shaky sigh.

It was over too quickly, bringing with it exhausted satisfaction, which was followed by terrible guilt. It was one thing to fantasize about a faceless being. It was another matter entirely to fantasize about one's best friend… one's _male_ best friend. Every time, Wilson felt as though it was a perverted violation of their friendship to even think about it.

"Why can't I just be into tits and ass like normal men," he asked no one in particular.

It was the middle of the night… House was probably fast asleep… Why did it have to be him? It wasn't even that he was a man. No, that wasn't the real problem. It was that Gregory House was a very straight, very angry, very rude man, who likely wouldn't react well to hearing 'guess what I'm in love with you' from his only ( _male_ ) friend.

But every time House gave him an inch, it was like being given a mile; yes, he could be very mean, but he could also be very affectionate and caring. Wilson knew this better than most. Better than anyone they had ever met. And every time House smiled at him, or hugged him, or thanked him, it gave him shivers. Part of him ached when House wasn't around, like he was missing bits and pieces when the other man was away. Every bit of him hurt whenever House reminded him of just how impossible it would be for them to be together.

"Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love," he muttered, then heaved himself up out of bed to get cleaned off.

It's hard on a face when it gets laughed in.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, how's the cancer going?" House asked, leaning back in his seat with his feet on the table, playing his Gameboy. "Any interesting sick people stories?"

"None I'm going to share with you," Wilson answered, rolling his eyes and sinking into one of the chairs strewn about House's office.

"Oh, Wilson. You just zap the fun right out of dying."

"Awfully unsporting of me, I know." He smirked, then in turn propped his feet up on the table to join House's. "Any interesting sick people stories on your end?"

"Lupus."

"Seriously?"

" _No, it's the bubonic plague_. Yes, seriously."

"But you guys _always_ guess Lupus… You're positive?"

"Nope. I just like the looks of hopelessness that cross their faces when I lie like that."

There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by the 8bit soundtrack of House's videogame. Wilson's brow knitted into a frown.

"Well… That's terrible!" he said, the reality of the news setting a little more. "What type?"

"Systemic."

"How did they take it?"

"They took it just fine, strangely enough. It was their family that was the problem. Parents don't react particularly well to hearing that their teenager has a horrible incurable disease."

"Teenager, too, huh. But SLE can be controlled and most live a relatively normal life…"

House paused and looked up at his friend. "Since when has anyone been rational about dysfunction?"

"Yeah, but…"

"People react one of two ways to dysfunction. Either they reject it, and everything is terrible, or they ignore it. The other option is to embrace it, putting their problem on a pedestal so that they feel special. 'My dysfunction makes me different from everyone else and I'm unique just like mommy said', and _it_ _takes over their lives_." He said with a frown. "People become their dysfunctions, Wilson. You know that. You're an oncologist for chrissake."

Wilson looked down at his lap. He was right again. Always right.

"Damn… died again." House sighed and set his Gameboy down on the desk. "Wanna head to the cafeteria?"

"Uh… sure. You're not busy?"

"Nope. Are you?"

"Well, kind of."

"Okay, awesome, cafeteria it is."

He hobbled around the other man to the door. Wilson grinned, then leapt up and followed him out.

Once again, he had blown it. How was it that he always managed to let his cynicism and bitterness get in the way of everything he said or did?

It was a wonder Wilson continued to put up with him.

He braved a sideways glance at his young friend, taking in as much as he could before the other noticed; his swinging gait, his rounded nose, his chestnut brown hair and gentle eyes. He was the only being in the known universe who continued to willingly put up with House's bullshit. He focused his attention on the hall ahead of them.

"Sorry."

Wilson faltered and stared at his friend. "Wh… What?"

"I said sorry. Jeez, you don't need to make such a big deal of it," he jabbed, and then caught himself. "Sorry again."

"What brought this on?" Wilson chuckled.

"Keep your voice down… I don't need everyone thinking I'm going soft," House muttered. "I just… You know me. I hide behind it. If there's no one… I don't have to care. I don't have anyone to disappoint or let down. On the downside, _I don't have anyone_."

"But you have me," Wilson murmured, gently gripping House's elbow. "You'll always have me, House."

"I know." The older man let out a sigh and turned to the oncologist, a subtle, appreciative smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you. For everything, Wilson." He looked away. "James."

Wilson laughed and nudged the other man in the ribs. "Thank the lord! It's a miracle! Mark this day on the calendar, everyone. Gregory House is showing affection."

"Shut up, you overly optimistic, cheery, oblivious moron." He snickered.

"In all seriousness, though, House – _Greg_ – it's my pleasure. Sure, you're an insufferable jerk, but you're _my_ insufferable jerk."

The moment was so sickeningly sweet House felt like he might vomit. "I need to go verbally abuse some patients or kill a kitten or something. Too much nice all at once."

Wilson chuckled and smiled a smile that threatened to split his face in half. That was one of Wilson's many wonderful qualities; he never held back. When he smiled, his entire being threw itself into smiling. Every single feature shifted to accommodate the swelling joy and House loved it.

"Come on, let's go eat."

"House, it's Saturday night. Let's go get drunk and watch pretty girls take their clothes off."

"But General Hospital…"

"'But' nothing. We have the day off! Let's go out! Let's do something fun!"

"General Hospital is fun," House countered, gesturing pointedly to the television in his living room. "And we have Chinese. What could be better?"

"Booze and pretty girls taking their clothes off," Wilson answered, throwing himself down onto the couch next to his friend.

"You'll have to beg for it," House decided.

Wilson gulped.

"I don't hear you begging."

"Please?"

"Pathetic." House grunted. With difficulty, he climbed to his feet and grabbed his cane, limping to the Vicodin bottle. "We'll work on it. Let's get dolled up then, darlin'. We can't very well go out dressed like doctors. You can borrow one of my shirts if you like."

He tossed his cane on the messy bed and hopped to the dresser, tossing t-shirt after t-shirt from its depths and onto the floor until he found one he liked. At last, he held up an old Beatles tee that had seen better days and flashed Wilson a smile.

"Here, put this on," he ordered, and the younger man did so as House went rummaging through his closet for a blazer.

Slowly, Wilson undid one button after the other on his dress shirt, cheeks flushing as more and more of his skin was exposed. House picked a black blazer and turned back to his friend, the words dying in his throat as Wilson stretched his arms over his head and pulled the Beatles shirt down over his tanned torso. There was something extremely attractive about seeing Wilson wearing something of his. His blue eyes hungrily took in the sight before he averted his gaze, handing the younger man the blazer and searching for his own outfit.

"I think I'll keep with the music theme," he said, holding up a Pink Floyd tee.

He spontaneously decided to play a little game. Seductively, he popped the buttons from their loops, biting his lip gently as he slid the wrinkled dress shirt down his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He pretended not to notice, didn't say a word as Wilson discreetly let his gaze wander over the other man's lithe, battered body.

 _And now for the finale…_ He arched his back and guided the hem of the t-shirt to rest around his hips, risking a glance at his friend. Wilson's cheeks were tinged and he seemed to be on another planet. House smirked.

"You okay?"

"Hm?" the oncologist murmured weakly, then snapped to attention and cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, fine. Absolutely fine."

"Alright, if you say so…" House said innocently. "So, a night on the town, huh? Lead the way."


	3. Chapter 3

The music was obnoxiously loud, the girls obnoxiously flirtatious, and he was obnoxiously drunk. House had always said he couldn't handle his alcohol, but he'd never been as acutely aware of it until that particular moment.

"What's your name?" she asked, hands stroking up and down his chest and playing with the collar of the Beatles t-shirt, mouthing at his neck. Her voice sounded like she was underwater, like they had both been pulled under waves.

"James," he answered, and while she smiled and nipped at his skin, he couldn't quite tell if he was enjoying it or not. "Ima doctor."

"A doctor?"

"Yeah. Oncol… on… oncologist. I think that's what it's called…?"

She clearly had no idea what an oncologist was, but she didn't seem to care much, either. Her hands wandered into uncharted lands and that seemed to sober him up quite a bit, because suddenly he realised he hadn't seen House in over half an hour, he was very drunk, and this girl's hand WAS IN HIS PANTS OH GOD WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN.

"O-Oh, whoooa, whoa! Uh…" he didn't really know what to say, so he just gently took her by the wrist and removed her appendage from his manhood.

She gave him a look of confusion. "But I thought you were enjoying it?"

"So did I… I think. Well I dunno. I guess I thought I did, but…" he sighed, coming to the reality of it; "I'm just not into girls."

She frowned, then with an air of flippant resignation, rose and gracefully strode away. He sat there for a few moments, watching the girls on the stage as he desperately fought the fog to figure out what he was supposed to do next… Something about… a house…?

"Ohhh yeah, that's right."

He stumbled to his feet and made his way through the hordes of people, but it was like trying to walk through mud while someone was hitting him repeatedly in the head with a small sledgehammer during the turning hall scene in Inception.

The door was in sight… sort of. It was occasionally in sight; it kept wobbling back and forth and in and out of view. No more booze for Wilson, no sir! He somehow managed to wrap his fingers around the handle and staggered out into the cool air of nighttime.

He found House leaning on the railing of the veranda, looking out over the river below. The moon was low near the tips of the trees, catching in the older doctor's silver hair. He looked lonelier than Wilson had ever seen him.

"Next time let's just stay in and watch General Hostipal," Wilson groaned, joining his friend and staring down into the depths of the rocky, darkened ravine. Their elbows were gently touching, which was nice. It was sweet. Some form of contact, however ambiguous.

"Sounds like a plan," House sighed, almost sadly. "How's the booze and pretty girls?"

"Rather disappointing, actually," Wilson replied, hiccoughing. "Ugh. I feel like shit."

"That's what you get for binge drinking. No wonder you couldn't get it up."

"Well…" Wilson trailed off, wondering if he should finally come clean. House shot him a sideways glance, waiting patiently. "Have you ever been in love with someone you knew you couldn't have?"

Oh dear. This wasn't going to end well. Some sober and sane part of Wilson's brain screamed at him to stop talking, but the drunken parts were all saying 'I got this, I got this. Here, hold my beer.'

"Of course," House answered quietly, reluctantly. His blue eyes were clear and thoughtful and sad and Wilson wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss him and his stupid, soft lips and all his stubble and run his hands through the swoops of silver hair.

"I can't have him. But every time I come close I hurt everywhere because it makes me feel like if I tried harder or if I was different in some way then everything would be okay and I know it won't but my heart stops beating and butterflies throw themselves against my insides and I get all nervous and shaky and I just want him and I can't have him."

House's eyes narrowed and he frowned. "'Him'?"

"Yes. 'Him'. I couldn't get it up because I'm in love with a 'him'." Wilson groaned. Everything was spinning, and he lay his head down on the railing. His mind was telling him no, stop, don't do this, but it was too late; his mouth was getting well ahead of itself. "I couldn't get it up because I'm in love with you."

House gaped slightly, then closed his mouth and looked away, out towards the water. He looked down at his hands. He looked back towards the club. Anywhere but at Wilson.

"Oh god… Oh fuck. I'm so sorry." The oncologist hid his face and shut his eyes tight… maybe if he pinched himself hard enough he'd wake up and find out it was all a dream. "What have I done… Please don't hate me."

"Why would I hate you, James?" House shook his head. "I just…"

He turned to his friend and smiled lopsidedly, eyes searching the younger man's features. Wilson sighed, seeing double. He felt like he was going to collapse. The perfect time to confess one's feelings: when one is on the verge of blacking out from too much booze.

"Come on. Let's get you home. You can sleep in my bed."


	4. Chapter 4

House pulled his robe tighter around his shoulders, sipping from the mug of warm tea. It was an Earl Grey kind of day, the air crisp and fresh in the light of new morning. Behind him, he heard Wilson's heavy footfalls.

He turned and smiled, offering him his mug. "G'morning, sunshine. You're up surprisingly early. Tea?"

"Please," Wilson grumbled. He was clad only in boxers, the Beatles shirt from the previous night, and a single sock, but standing on House's front stoop in his underwear didn't seem to faze him much. "I actually… feel pretty okay, considering just how drunk I really was."

"Wait until later. That's when it'll really hit you. Hangovers like to lull you into a false sense of security, then get you down and kick you where it hurts," House cautioned.

"This is why lightweights like me shouldn't drink." He sipped and sighed, handing the mug back to the older man. "Thanks, I needed that."

There was a pause. Cars drifted by, headed for the early shifts. It was only six in the morning.

"What did I do?" Wilson finally asked. It was the million dollar question, naturally.

"You confessed," House answered softly.

"C-Confessed…?"

"Yes. It was all very dramatic and poetic and such. You got gay cooties all over me," House joked. Wilson huffed.

"Can you please take this a little more seriously? For once in your life, take it seriously. It won't kill you," he snapped. His arms folded over his broad chest. "House, I don't know what drugs you've been taking, but _I confessed my love for you_. That's kind of a big deal and you're acting _quite_ nonchalant and almost _mocking_ about the whole thing. I don't need to be mocked." He chuckled humourlessly. "You know what? Forget it. Forget I said anything. I think I'll just go home and leave you be."

He turned and strode purposefully towards the bedroom to get changed when House called from the doorway.

"I'm sorry."

Wilson stopped. Turned. Waited.

"You're right, James. I am sorry." House walked in, shutting the door behind him and setting his mug on the coffee table, his gaze never leaving his best friend's. He seemed at a loss for what to say. "You were drunk. I thought… I don't know what I thought. But I thought something. I thought wrong. I'm sorry."

His words hung in the air, and at last, Wilson gave him an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry too. For snapping at you like that. It was uncalled for. And, sorry for ruining our friendship," he groaned, eyes downcast.

"Don't say that," House breathed, taking a few tentative steps towards Wilson, "don't say that. You haven't ruined anything."

He closed the distance between them entirely. The oncologist looked nervous and vulnerable, hands shaking, staring at the floor in embarrassment. His thick brown hair was tousled and messy, clothes rumpled, breathing carefully measured… Slowly he lifted his gaze to meet his friend's, a mere inch or two between them.

"You haven't ruined anything," House said.

His cane fell to the floor with a clatter as he pulled Wilson to him, crushing their lips together in some spontaneous fervency. Wilson was more than a little stunned, but as House's tongue nervously traced his bottom lip, he gave in completely.

It was just as excellent as he'd imagined it. Better, even. He slipped his hands between them and untied the knot on the robe, the only thing keeping him from feeling bare skin. House let his robe slip from his shoulders and down, where it lay forgotten as Wilson let his fingertips roam, eliciting shivers from his unlikely partner.

House growled, tearing the shirt from the other man's torso and throwing it unceremoniously to the ground, one hand around Wilson's waist while the other snaked down, driving their hips together. Wilson moaned as the diagnostician scraped his teeth across the soft flesh of the younger man's neck, fingers dipping below the elastic waistband of his boxers to grab a goodly fistful of Wilson's ass.

Wilson, pupils blown, pulled away, shoving his companion down onto the couch and climbing on, recapturing his lips and raking his hands through the silver hair. House eagerly rose to meet Wilson's movements, sliding the younger's boxers down to caress skin.

"G-Greg, I…" Wilson panted, "I-I've never… I mean I'm not-"

"If you want to stop, tell me. We'll stop immediately. You okay?" House said softly, thumb brushing across his friend's cheek.

"Yeah. More than okay."

"Good," House grunted, grinding their bodies together and catching the other off guard.

Wilson groaned as House's hand slipped between them, wrapping his slender fingers around Wilson's shaft and stroking gently. He responded quite enthusiastically, increasing his pace until he couldn't take it anymore, thrusting with wild abandon into his best friend's grip.

"Oh fuck… Oh fucking fuck…"

He collapsed into a sticky heap on House's chest, breathing hard. It was better than any fantasy he'd ever come up with. Beneath him, House laughed, planting gentle kisses across Wilson's moist skin.

"You still okay?"

" _More than_ more than okay," Wilson breathed, pulling his boxers back up. House snickered.

Moments passed. Wilson could feel the butterflies knocking around as he finally made up his mind. He held House's crystal blue gaze as he edged lower and lower, trembling fingers fumbling with the drawstring on House's pajama bottoms.

"James, you don't have t-"

"I know. But I want to," he interjected, tongue swiping his lips as he gently slid the pants down.

His stomach did backflips, the bottoms slipping down over House's narrow hips, then past a smattering of hair, and finally down to his knees.

"Oh jesus… Ohhh jesus," Wilson muttered.

It just kind of… lay there. It looked relatively similar to his own, so it was nothing new, but even so… It was weirder somehow. Alien. He stared at it. House waited uncertainly.

"You don't have to do anything you don't feel comfortable with," he said. "I'm not going to be upset if you want to st- holy _shit_."

While he had never given a man head before, he had watched enough porn to know what giving head was supposed to look like. Hesitantly, he grasped House's firm manhood and slowly stroked downwards, his mouth following close behind.

It was easier than he'd expected it to be. He'd always wondered what secret there was behind the whole process, but it was about as secretive as rain being wet. It really _was_ as easy as putting it in your mouth and bobbing your head. House let out a husky moan, burying his hands in Wilson's hair.

"Oh god…"

Wilson pulled away briefly, blushing. "Say my name…?"

House grinned. "James… please don't stop."

The way he breathed his name sent shivers up Wilson's spine. The more aggressive he became, the louder House's groans became in turn. The older man fought to keep still, but it proved to be quite the challenge; Wilson just looked so damn cute sucking his cock like that.

"J-James… Fuck…" he growled, then with a final thrust, arched into Wilson's eager mouth.

Wilson coughed and choked, spit and cum dripping down his chin. House sat up, worried.

"Oh god, are you okay?" he asked, wiping some of the fluid from his partner's face. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to get carried away like that."

"Oh, no, it's fine," Wilson reassured with a grin. "Besides. You looked pretty fuckin' hot."

House snickered. "So, want a shower?"

"Only if we have shower sex," Wilson said with a flirty grin.

House chuckled, brushing a few stray chestnut locks out of Wilson's eyes and nodding.

"Deal."


End file.
